Summer of Love

by

Pat Foley

Chapter 4

Coming through the door was an entourage, that reminded Spock of the aides and guards that often surrounded and flanked his father. Or the flying squad that accompanied senior officers on inspection tours at StarFleet. He found himself rising to his feet in unconscious respect for what such a group, in his limited experience, must mean.

Limited experience. Because the center of the group was not a statesman bearing Ambassadorial robes, nor a flag officer conducting a review, but a woman wearing what appeared to be tiger striped jeans and an animal fur vest. Spock stilled his face from the automatic disapproval the costume engendered, not to mention the mental associations to the lematya of his home planet, and took a step to the back of the musicians.

"Roy!" the woman embraced the engineer in a manner that made Spock uneasy. She had long blond hair, not a natural blond like his mother's, hanging to her waist in a manner that to Spock seemed improper and to which he hadn't yet become accustomed during his stay on Terra. While there were girls and women in Fleet, they kept their hair secured in a manner more in keeping with Vulcan traditions, though it was due to practical Starfleet regulations. Men in general kept their hair cropped short. Either way, such styles made it less likely an enemy could use it to restrain you, or that it would get caught in some machinery.

"I loved the preliminary tracks you sent," she enthused.

"Nothing preliminary about them," Roy said, smiling perfunctorily, his eyes narrowed at this first, predictable salvo. "They were final tracks."

"Well, yes, but with just a few changes-"

The musicians around Spock gave a sigh so concerted and in unison that Spock looked around, wondering if he had missed some general cue as to social response.

"Shouldn't take more than the day," Jared Defoe, the business manager said, paging through his digital personal assistant. "Provided you don't try and string us out on time."

""We'll certainly do our best," Roy said with tired patience. "Your musicians are all here, so the sooner we get started–"

"Yes," Van El said, "And I've brought them all a little something. Jan?" she looked behind her to a laden attendant, who began handing out mylar bags of swag.

"Drew, Finn. Darling Chad. Dear Richard," she said, ignoring his sardonic grin. And-" the assistant came face to face with the young Vulcan as Richard turned away. With the short Fleet haircut revealing every arched brow and pointed ear, his alien origin was undisguisable. "Oh!" the assistant fluttered in ethnocentric alarm.

"Van-El, this is Spock. Your lyrist," Roy said, as he set his own unwanted bag of swag aside.

"A pleasure to meet you," Van El said, holding out her hand.

Spock put his hands behind his back and straightened, giving her a circumspect nod instead. "Madam."

Van El laughed, in part to cover up the awkward moment. "I hope that's meant in the non-prostitution sense."

"English isn't his first language," Roy said, with a repressive look to Spock, once that Spock had been well familiar with receiving before, albeit from his mother. At this Spock politely took the swag bag the assistant thrust into his hands, keeping his face stoic in spite of her standing as far away from the 'alien' as she possibly could. Then he retreated behind the other musicians.

"Too bad you didn't say Boo, Junior," Chad said, in a prison whisper meant for Vulcan ears. "She'd have jumped up to the acoustic tiles."

"He's very …young, isn't he," Van El meanwhile was saying, following the Vulcan with her eyes as Spock peered dubiously into the bag full of items largely bearing the singer's likeness, wondering what possible use she thought he might have for these. Her voice was pitched low, but not low enough for Vulcan hearing.

"He's lent to us from Starfleet Academy."

"Starfleet." Her face hardened a bit and her voice went up again. "Well, I'm not sure that's quite the image I want this album to represent. I want interstellar synchrony. A coming together in music. I'm not entirely in favor of military-"

"You played the Denubian Rings last year, did you not, Madam?" Spock lifting his head from his perusal of the nonsense items with which he'd been gifted.

"Yes. Part of a Live Aid tour."

Spock set the bag aside, and approached, hands behind his back, but eyes blazing. "Surely you're aware that if Starfleet hadn't intervened in their time of crisis, there would have been no population to which you could subsequently render 'Live Aid' with your concertizing."

She stared at him, too flummoxed to reply. Roy hastily intervened.

"Let's get started, shall we?" Roy motioned Van El to the recording booth. "Get your amended vocals out of the way first." When the door closed behind her, he shook his head at the Vulcan. "Remember what I said before, Spock. Don't argue with the client."

"Hell, good one, kid," Richard said, ignoring the engineer's displeasure and thumping Spock on the arm.

Spock whirled reflexively, fists up in defense mode, a reaction trained in daily hand-to-hand classes. Richard's eyes widened and he held his own hands up in surrender. "Hey Commodore! Shields down!"

"My apologies," Spock said, stiffening, eyes narrowed, dropping his to his side. "But it is best not to strike me. Unless you intend an altercation—"

"Guess our Junior can handle himself," Chad said.

"I regret if my reflexes momentarily preceded my reason. In Fleet, daily training in hand-to-hand is mandatory," Spock said.

"Don't fret, Junior. In Richard's case, that condition's more than momentary."

"Up yours," the drummer said, unphased. But he slid his eyes respectfully from the young Vulcan.

"Who is she?" Spock asked, viewing the singer with an unVulcan glower, his temper still fluctuating somewhat past his control, "to so disparage StarFleet?"

"Baby, what she is, is your meal ticket," Chad said. "Remember what Roy told you. Don't speak unless spoken to. These cats we play for, they fly around to cheering crowds, surrounded by 'yes, men'. They start to think of themselves as a cross between Albert Schweitzer, Mother Theresa, and a roving Federation Ambassador. God's gift to the universe. Crazy, yes, but it's not our place to pop their bubble. So, like Roy said, you just play nice."

"I shall play accurately," Spock huffed. But reminded that the artist was his meal ticket, he went over to the refreshment table to grab what perhaps might be his last under this employment while he looked over the latest score.

"I don't know about that Vulcan, Roy," Van El said, as she settled her headphones over her ears, looking at Spock through the soundproof panels.

"He's very gifted," Roy said.

"He's very young," she said. "Are you sure he's legal?"

"Eighteen."

"Barely legal," she said.

"Vanny, you wanted alien accompaniments as a hook," DeFoe said. "What does it matter to you how old, so long as you get them?"

Watching the arm gestures that accompanied an argument, Richard surreptitiously opened the audio between the recording and control room.

"I like my sessioners to like me," she said.

"Flatter you, you mean," DeFoe said, unimpressed.

"F- her, he means, " Richard mouthed to his group, back turned, listening.

"What do you care? Session musicians are low charisma technicians," DeFoe countered. "If they were any good, they'd make it on their own."

In the control room, now listening to the relayed audio, the musicians traded glances, their faces setting at this slight.

Mouth full, Spock met their eyes. A look of solidarity passed between them.

"F—her," Richard mouthed, eyes hard, this time with an entirely different meaning.

"It's just another gig, baby," Chad said softly. "They come and go. Let it go."

"They aren't all like this, Spock" Drew said comfortably, unbothered after the first bad moment. He leaned against the back of the couch, guitar in his arms, and air played a comforting lick.

"Yeah," Richard said sardonically. "Some are worse."

"Well, maybe a few," Drew said, and laughed. "Most could care less. Half the time, we never even meet the talent."

"Are we not talent as well?" Spock asked, half offended for his associates.

"There's talent, and there's celebrity," Drew said.

"Plenty with the latter, don't have much technical competence." Finn, the bass player, was generally silent. So when he spoke, the group tended to listen. "Fame is mostly marketing. And luck."

"Don't let it rile you, Junior," Chad said, seeing Spock had thrust out his lower lip in an understatedly Vulcan but still recognizable version of a pout1. "You're in the brotherhood here."

"Humph." Spock said, listening to the vocalist. He tilted his head in a Vulcan shrug, singularly unimpressed. "My mother sings better. This female is not even in tune."

"S'why we have auto-tune," Richard said comfortably.

"Yo mamma, yet," Chad said, amused. "'Zat where you get your talent, baby?"

Drawn back to himself, Spock thought pensively of his father, gifted on the lyre even though he rarely played. Even if he did take after Sarek in that respect, given their present state of disaffection, Spock could hardly claim the relationship. "I suppose so." At least he thought his mother might be pleased at his granting her that credit.

The musicians traded glances, puzzled by his subdued air.

One by one, the individual musicians were called into booths to lay down the new tracks. They got through most of the rerecordings by late afternoon, and were gathered to listen to a final vocal redub when instead of balancing the mixes, the board suddenly delivered an unmelodious caterwaul to the speakers, and then the boards' indicators and lights faded.

"What the?" Van El said, hands on her ears.

Roy meanwhile was flipping switches and rebooting his equipment, to no avail. "Looks like the main circuit board."

Those recording came trailing out of the main and secondary isolation rooms. Defoe checked his chronometer with a finicky attention to the accounting potential. "I hope this isn't going to take long. Van El has a schedule, you know. She has to be in London-"

"Switch to another studio?" Chad asked.

"All booked," Roy said, and swore when nothing he did helped.

"Move someone," Defoe ordered.

"Look, don't worry," Roy placated. "We have backup parts, plus A3 rated computer technicians on call. The best in the business. They can be here within an hour."

"An hour?" Defoe said. "She's got interviews set up for evening. Then a shuttle to catch."

"If you would allow me?" Spock had come up to observe Roy's futile efforts on the controls. "I am familiar with electronics and computers."

"Look, kid, this is way beyond whatever tinkertoy you've played with-" Defoe said.

"I hold an A6 computer rating," Spock said.

"An A6?" Roy said, astounded. "A6? That's –"

"You can check my accreditation," Spock said. "Replacing a board on such a device as this is a minor endeavor," he said to Defoe.

"Damn, Junior. What can't you do?" Chad asked.

"Many things," Spock assured the pianist. "But this task is well under my skill set."

"I don't know," Roy began, still uneasy, looking from his expensive equipment, worth many thousands of credits, to his impatient clients.

"Let him do it," Defoe took the engineer aside. "Or I'll charge you for the lost time, rather than the reverse."

Roy's jaw set at this. "Technical failures are covered under contract."

"Look, the board can't be any deader than it is," Van El said. "What's the harm?"

There was the sound of metal separating, and the group turned to see Spock removing the cover from the console's inner mechanisms with a prying tool. He surveyed the guts of the device with a judicial air. "This will take perhaps twenty minutes," he said, glancing over at the group still huddled in contention. "Perhaps you might avail yourselves of the refreshments while I replace the board."

"Hell, I think I might come to like that kid," Defoe said as he sipped water and watched the Vulcan repair the board with Vulcan speed.

"If only it weren't such cradle robbing," Van El said, giving Spock a regretful glance. "I might like him too."

Three hours later, the tracks were all in the can, Defoe had finished the publicity photos he'd arranged to follow a successful session, including an unsmiling Spock, and Roy was ushering Van El and her entourage out with plenty of time to spare. The earlier brunch refreshments had been replaced with more substantial dinner menus. Spock, along with the musicians, was contentedly consuming spinach manicotti complete with fresh diced tomatoes and mushrooms.

"Don't they feed you in Starfleet, Commodore?" Richard asked, amused by Spock's serious attention to the food.

"Cadet," Spock absently corrected, as he licked away a stray bit of sauce. "Yes, but unfortunately not well. Everything in the Fleet commissary is reconstituted. I will adjust to it eventually," he said, staring down at his plate with a fervent determination that betrayed his emotions. "But for now," he shrugged and went back to his meal.

"You've been holding out on us, Junior," Chad said. "Where'd you pick up a computer rating like that?"

"At the Vulcan Science Academy," Spock quirked a brow at that obvious, to him, fact.

"Why aren't you computering, then?" Richard asked.

"Cadets, plebes, aren't permitted to take positions outside of Fleet in their first year," Spock said. "This gig, as you call it, was an exception. In part to benefit Fleet public relations."

"Well, that's over with," Roy exclaimed in relief as he returned. "They're in their aircar and gone." He sank into a chair.

"It went well," Chad said, filling a plate and passing it to the engineer. "She had hardly a diva moment."

"Except for Defoe's" Richard smirked.

"I think Spock here put her off her usual stride."

"Puzzled her, more like. If she could be shamed." Richard added.

"Maybe," Roy said. He eyed Spock over their plates of manicotti. "Thought I told you not to argue with clients. Ever."

Mouth full, Spock shrugged human style.

"An A6 computer rating? How did a -?" Roy began.

"Vulcan Science Academy," Chad said helpfully.

Spock gave them his best Vulcan innocent look in favor of answering. The session had run late, what with the holo session he estimated he only had minimal time before leaving to catch the magtrain back to San Francisco. Limited time to get in a dinner. Or two.

"Tell me, kid, are there many more like you walking around?" Roy asked, accepting the plate.

Spock swallowed and considered his divided heritage seriously. "Not many, sir."

"Guess it's a good thing we've got you under contract then," Roy allowed, and dug into his pasta.

"More, please?" Spock said and passed his empty plate back to Chad, determined to stock up against the long, reconstituted week ahead.

He put away his second helping and made his train. But it wasn't long after that when Spock found himself called to report on that day's activities.

"Do you mind explaining this?" Commander Kaine, the Freshman Dean, tossed a flimsy on his desk.

Spock peered at the headline, "Will strings lead to heartstrings?" complete with one of the holographs Defoe's reporters had taken of himself with the singer. "Van El lyricizes with Vulcan Alliance. Songbird to the Stars!"

"Perhaps some literary license," Spock conceded, "though not out of the range of what I estimate is usual for the less legitimate press," he added. "They were lyre strings."

"You were given permission to pursue this as a cultural liaison. Not as a –" Kaine sputtered, "a rent boy."

"I was paid for my efforts," Spock said. "Standard union scale."

"Union?!"

"Only for the music," Spock clarified. "Not for the computer work I performed."

Kaine studied the clueless Vulcan before him. The flush slowly faded from the human's face and he sank behind his desk. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

Spock tilted his head. He said nothing.

"Or you do." Kaine glowered. "And you aren't saying."

Spock eyes had widened as he belatedly took in Kaine's meaning, but he was too shocked to follow up on such, to him, prurient aspersions. "I had permission to pursue this employment," he said coldly. "I fail to see the issue to which you object."

"You have an image to uphold as a member of StarFleet!"

"I was contracted to perform a Vulcan skill," Spock countered, stolid with Vulcan control, unphased by this contentious debate with a senior officer.

"Humph!" Keene said, not missing the lack of even a trace of guilty conscience. "So long as that "Vulcan skill" doesn't result in more Vulcans in the guise of a paternity suit," he said. "Starfleet can't afford scandals."

Spock raised a brow, even as his cheekbones flushed chartreuse. "If I understand you correctly, that sort of scandal is not something I am interested in pursuing."

"You won't have the opportunity," Kaine said. "Your employment privileges are now rescinded. We can't risk even the hint of scandal."

Spock straightened slightly, one brow rising. "But-"

"That's an order, Cadet."

There was nothing Spock could really say in reply, except the obligatory, "Aye, sir." He gave it, wondered how such a minor thing as a holograph could have such consequences.

"Dismissed."

Deeply puzzled, for he was sure logic was on his side, Spock checked out the netsphere, seeking information as to what social mores he'd violated. The double entendre in the article, expertly drawn in such tabloids, was somewhat over his relatively innocent head. He failed to appreciate it in all its implications. The dean's objections thus remained a mystery to him.

And because fortunately or not, tabloids of that nature and in that genre were uncommon literary fodder at Starfleet Academy, no one else enlightened him. The student body hadn't picked up on the articles, or if they had, were unaware that the Vulcan in the press article was in fact their fellow cadet. Spock had no close confidants to have shared with anyone his extra-curricular activity. So he continued to fly under the sensor net.

Meanwhile, Roy contacted him. Van El, he said, wanted some more changes. And another photo session.

"My privileges have been rescinded," Spock explained, brow furrowed in regret.

"What the hell did you do?" Roy asked.

"Nothing that I can understand merits such curtailment," Spock said. "The dean took objection to some stories circulated in the netsphere regarding my employment by Van El."

"Wait a minute," Roy said slowly. "Are you telling me Starfleet – the organization supposedly defending our interests in space - is freaking over normal tabloid drivel?"

"If I understand you, affirmative."

Roy swore. "Well, I'm in the middle of an album here. I have a paying client who booked you. And for which, I might add, you signed a contract."

Spock lowered his brows further. "But I have performed the necessary service."

"The artist has the right to request reasonable retakes." Roy ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not going to sue you for breach if you don't come back. DeFoe might. But if Van El wants, she's got her paparazzi on speed dial." Roy grimaced, realizing the Vulcan might be clueless as to the term. "They're-"

"I'm somewhat aware of the negative aspects of that segment of the press," Spock said slowly, thinking of times when they'd been after his mother.

"Even if she might not want to slam you, they'd probably leap to give your Fleet a black eye if they got word they were the mute on the bowstring." Seeing Spock looked mystified, he added. "They'd make Fleet look ridiculous. Hell, this is ridiculous even to me." He took pity on the clueless Vulcan youth. "Look, do you want me to talk to your dean? Maybe explain the politics of show business? It's not simple military maneuvers."

"Negative," Spock frowned, imagining that conversation, but straightened, preparing himself for it mentally. "I apparently put my superiors in this vulnerable position. It is my task to retrieve the situation."

"Good luck," Roy said.

Spock let out a little sigh as he cut the connection, wondering why humans always appealed to chance when logic and preparation were more obvious a solution.

There was one good advantage to being a diplomatic brat, even though Spock didn't think of himself in that way, and did his best to avoid being singled out for special treatment. When he asked for an audience with higher ups, he was invariably given an appointment. That didn't mean they liked the necessity, or would accede to him, but at least he got a hearing.

And whether he was conscious of that, the dean was aware of the difference between the Vulcan plebe and the average cadet. He actually stood when Spock entered the room, an inadvertent gesture, though just long enough to give Spock a gruff acknowledgment and gesture him hastily to a chair to cover this faux pas in rank.

"I have discovered a conflict between your prior orders and an inadvertent obligation on my part. Sir." Spock began.

"What obligation can that be?" the dean asked, paging in his mind potential demands from this cadet's myriad lofty relations and his service in StarFleet.

"I must return to the studio to complete some recordings."

The dean straightened, on more comfortable ground, now that he wasn't dealing with the legendary T'Pau or Sarek of Vulcan. "I thought that rigamarole was over. I ordered it to be over."

"When I first engaged in the activity, I had no such orders," Spock explained. "And my obligations were not contracted with your rescinded permission in mind."

"Do you intend to be a musician or a Fleet officer, cadet?"

"I am a musician," Spock clarified. "I intend still to be a Fleet officer. I foresee no issues in accommodating both at this time."

"Except I've forbidden the former."

"Sir," Spock said. "I informed the studio of your orders. And they agreed that they could do nothing to counter them."

"Are you suggesting you will?"

"No, sir," Spock said. "But the engineer pointed out that while he would make other arrangements, albeit not willingly, he could do nothing to curtail the artist. Or the press, should the artist so inform them that Starfleet had required my reneging on my contractual obligations due to some minor tabloid coverage."

The dean studied the Vulcan before him minutely. Spock maintained his innocently helpful expression.

"You're saying they plan to give Fleet a black eye?"

Spock thought it interesting how such a wildly irrelevant phrase occurred to two such differing individuals on separate sides of a conflict. "Planned is perhaps excessive. His immediate impression was that Fleet's vacillation upon some minor tabloid attention would be evaluated as less than notable. In an institution tasked with both guarding the Federation and exploring the unknown," he added helpfully.

"Well, hell, they're saying we're cowards."

"Perhaps. Yes, sir."

"Let me make myself clear, Cadet," the dean said. "In Fleet, we may be forced to deal with political exigencies. But that doesn't mean we appreciate those that impose them. Troublemakers don't last in Fleet."

"No, sir," Spock said. Then added. "I was not seeking trouble," His brows drawing down, he continued, "I was contacted to assist in this endeavor, as I understand it, in part to accommodate the Civilian Liaison Office. I cooperated as requested. Nothing I have done should have reflected adversely upon StarFleet."

The older officer slapped his palm on the desk. "All right. So you claim innocence. Maybe this nonsense is our Public Relations department seeking to make our image more relevant, or accessible." He leaned forward across the desk. "If so, I can't counter them. Go off and play music – I suppose even Fleet has to dance sometimes to a civilian tune-"

"Sir," Spock objected, "as to dancing, neither I-"

The dean shook a finger at the young Vulcan. "But while I won't hold you responsible for tabloid nonsense, you'd better not give me an adverse reason to notice you again."

Rather than react in any alarm, Spock sat back, raising a brow at the outthrust finger. He gave his superior a long, emotionless, evaluative look, clearly unimpressed by such a threat. He was thinking back to his confrontation with Sarek, before he left for Starfleet. And how different his reaction had been, then. Even though he had been determined to leave, Sarek's warnings had shaken him. But the dean's warnings left him singularly unimpressed. He was so long in responding, in fact, that the dean became embarrassed.

"You're dismissed, Cadet."

Spock rose precisely. Stood to attention. "Yes sir," he said his very control underlying his impression of the prior interchange. He turned with military precision and went out.

"Any other plebe would have quaked. Appropriately," the dean rose and went to stare out his window, noting the young Vulcan departing the building, his walk as measured and as calm as if the interchange hadn't happened. "Vulcans!"

Spock didn't hesitate to take full advantage of the license he had been granted. And exploited it to the full.

He soon had a regular recording schedule at WestLake Studios, a Magtrain subscription pass from San Francisco to Greater LA, a guitar of his own and a satisfactory credit balance in his Federation banking accounts. He was nothing more than a session musician at WestLake, but he was considered a reliable and versatile one. That he had both instrument and computer repair skills added to his reputation.

And he was finding the experience fascinating.

Twice he'd been flown from San Francisco to London to the Abbey Road Studios. He was given to understand these were legendary facilities. To him a studio was a studio, and his chief interest was the sound boards they contained. Though the Georgian townhouse Abbey Road was located in was an interestingly archaic piece of architecture, preserved from all the London development by a historic trust. In that vein, he signed his name to the list of artists who'd performed there with a quirk of his brow, thinking of a Vulcan adding to that storied history. And when he had a moment away from recording, he went to see the legendary Buckingham Palace. He thought it compared vary unfavorably with the Fortress. Or his grandmother's much larger palace. Still, it was only a human edifice.

He was also sent on gigs to New York City and Detroit. Three times he also recorded Stellarvision specials for various 'stars', several for delayed broadcast and some 'live'. The immense crowds before several of these performances had surprised him and given him pause. Not that he was afflicted with performance nerves. Just with concern that such a large group, all projecting emotion, would overwhelm telepathic shields that he'd never thought would be put to such a test.

But he discovered that rather than the crowd's emotions being a detriment, instead their projection had carried him and the other musicians away, on a burst of near euphoria he'd been hard pressed to completely barrier against.

Still, he'd kept his head well enough to keep it down. And strove to keep his ears usually covered with a headset. Very much striving to be incognito as one of mere myriad studio backup musicians, lest either Starfleet or perhaps even his relatives on Vulcan, take exception to these somewhat unorthodox activities.

But while there had been some additional news coverage of the new fad for alien instrumentals in popular music, the focus had been far more on the stars embracing the phenomenon. No reporter went too far out of his or her way to seek out a studio musician who took pains to avoid notice, particularly when others were very much putting themselves forward. Had they been able to put two and two together and realized the young Vulcan playing backup guitar or lyre was actually the one and same son of Ambassador Sarek and Amanda Grayson, grandson of T'Pau of Vulcan - the only person to turn down a seat on the Federation High Council – that he was the heir to the Vulcan Alliance and a Starfleet cadet against his father's wishes, there could have been far more fanfare. But Sarek and Amanda had gone to considerable pains to keep their son free from media attention as he was growing up. And they had been so successful at that, that he had been largely forgotten by the tabloid media. No one of their number, so far, had put two and two together.

Spock found himself having a moderately enjoyable time, and experiencing an interesting deviation from his Starfleet curriculum. Though with a Vulcan's talent for compartmentalization, he found nothing notable in maintaining such an extreme contrast as a norm. In fact, given he'd been raised by a very human mother, and had lived a very Vulcan existence outside of his home, living such dual lives in tandem seemed quite ordinary to him.

One particular Saturday in late March he'd traveled down by MagTrain to WestLake as usual. In short order, he'd performed a lyre solo for a psychedelic rock group called "No!", then a classical piano accompaniment that Chad had preferred to defer to him. By late afternoon, he was playing second guitar to Drew Cobb and Finn McNeary, lead and bass guitarists, the three of them rehearsing together in what Spock had come to understand was a typical run through prior to their recording on different tracks in separate isolation rooms. Both humans exchanged grins and glances as they picked through the intricate dueling solos. Spock found himself caught up in the camaraderie, and his mouth curved in a faint echo of its own, enjoying the oneness that such collaborations granted, which persisted even through the individual track recordings that followed.

"That's the last track, everyone," Roy finally said. "Spock, before you go, can you take a look and give a listen to that Quinto board? I'm seeing some oscillations."

"Certainly," Spock said, setting aside his guitar.

Significant looks passed between the other musicians. They packed up their instruments before filing into the control room where Spock sat alone, having manhandled the massive board out from the wall and disassembled it into pieces around him on the floor.

"Find out what's wrong with it?" Richard asked, lounging into a seat.

"It appears to be a loose connection," Spock mused, head into his work. "No doubt the vibrations jarred –" he looked up, seeing the musicians settling around him. He blinked, sensing some deeper intent in the group. His fingers tightened around the tool in his hand. He considered, belatedly, if he had made a mistake. In his plebe year in Starfleet, he'd learned quickly never to be caught out alone and vulnerable. But after the first week, he'd dropped his guard, never suspecting that in this group.

Now he wondered if his months here, sans anything similar to that hazing that plagued Starfleet, had allowed him to be carelessly set up. Roy had gone. He looked from one to the other of the group whom he'd thought had been …colleagues, if not precisely friends. "You want something of me?" he asked, hiding his discomfort in stiff formality.

Drew shifted uneasily, and rose. Spock dropped the tool and prepared himself. Five to one was actually not bad odds for him. And few of these musicians appeared to be in shape. If they came one by one, he'd have no problems. And even if they rushed him, as a group-

Why, he wondered, even as he drew in a breath. Why always?

"We were wondering, Spock, what your plans are. For the summer," Drew clarified.

Spock stared at the lead guitarist for a long moment, reconnecting his conscious brain back from battle mode. "Summer?" he asked. He reminded himself to breathe again. Even in the heavy oxygen content here, he was feeling a little light-headed from the Vulcan equivalent of adrenalin.

"You won't be in school, right? I mean, even Starfleet takes a couple of months off?" Richard asked.

Spock looked from one to the other of the group again, now really confused. "I don't understand."

"Oh, hell, Drew, just lay the track down," Chad said and leaned forward over his hands. "Normally we don't do much session work in the summer, Junior. Everyone tours, because kids are out of school, and the concert season really picks up. No one wants to be buried in a studio, playing to a board rather than a crowd."

"Normally we hire ourselves out," Finn said. "And we make good money at it."

"But this year," Drew said. "We're thinking of playing our own gigs."

Spock walled his emotions up against the loss he felt. A differing loss than what he'd mistakenly suspected a moment ago, but still a loss. He thought he'd left behind the emotions he had experienced every time his parents departed for each siren call of diplomacy. But now these same emotions rose up as if new. And here he was, left behind again. "I wish you every success," he said formally, his mouth setting. He picked up the tool, lowering his head over the board to hide his too obvious reaction.

"No, Junior, you don't get it," Chad said. "We're asking you if you want to join us."

Spock drew a sharp breath, and his head rose. "Really?"

"We can't promise to pay much," Drew warned. "Split takes from the gigs, after expenses. But we'd also pay you a small salary as a roadie."

"What is a roadie?" Spock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Hell, this kid is too innocent to bear," Richard objected. "And all summer?"

"Shut up, Richard," Drew said. "Keeping instruments tuned, and equipment repaired, helping to set up. You tune, even without an electronic nanny."

"Well, naturally, I have no need of one," Spock said, obscurely offended at this slur to his perfect pitch.

"And you seem able to repair pretty much anything electronic. You can string. There's a lot of wear and tear involved in moving and setting up instruments every night," Drew explained. "So those skills are a plus. Not to mention there's grunt work," he eyed the massive board Spock had managed unaided. "You'd be handy."

"I could perform those tasks," Spock agreed. "And at present, I haven't yet made plans for when the Starfleet term ends. I had thought-" he closed his mouth on that. His mother had suggested, before he'd left Vulcan, that he return this summer. But then she had seemed so strangely incommunicado for much of the year. His father was still obdurately against his Starfleet enlistment. And his mother, while she had been helpful and responded to weekly messages, had seemed more and more remote of late. He supposed it a natural consequence of his absence. But he didn't think his presence on Vulcan would be welcome at this time. "I have no plans," he reiterated, walling off those emotions too.

"This wouldn't be a five star tour," Finn warned. "The takes could be lower than what you might get sessioning for some big name. You could get a gig like that. We often do, summers." He made a face. "But we deal with those egos the rest of the year."

"Yeah," Richard said, in fervent disparagement. "F- em."

"Every few years, we just like to go off on our own, play our own music at our own gigs," Finn said.

"Where are these gigs?" Spock asked.

"Everywhere we can line up, man," Richard said.

"Small venues," Drew cautioned. "No fifty thousand seat stadiums, like in London or New York. You'd certainly get to see more of the country," he said. "In a small way. We don't do any world touring. But we cover a lot of the states. You'd get to see more of the music scene."

"It would be educational," Finn said.

"From the down and gritty end," Drew continued.

"Particularly gritty," Richard said. "The road on tour, particularly a low-ball tour, is a different place. Maybe no place for a choir boy."

"Shut up, Richard," Drew said.

"I'm just saying," Richard argued, "that maybe the road is no place for a kid like the Commodore here, who doesn't drink, doesn't dope and doesn't appear to chase tail."

"You agreed, Richard," Drew said.

"So long as he understands we aren't his babysitters," Richard said.

"I don't need a babysitter," Spock said, brows lowering into thunderclouds.

"Junior will be just fine," Chad said firmly.

"Subsequent to my confirming dates and –" Spock thought of the necessity of explaining this to his mother, "other requirements, I accept."

Everyone, even Richard, relaxed.

And Chad grinned his sunshine smile. "We're going to have us a great summer, baby."

To be continued...

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Footnote:

1 Before anyone objects, Leonard Nimoy's Spock does pout in quite a few episodes of TOS. It's kind of amusing/endearing in a Vulcan. (Don't think of Nimoy's Spock from the movies, quite different in many respects) Zach in the Reboot movies did a bit as well.